A Very Zarqawi Christmas

The Post reports on a godless Manhattan Christmas display that has rankled the neighbors:

Slay bells are ringing outside a $3 million brownstone on East 18th Street in Manhattan, where, rather than your typical jolly St. Nick, a skinny, bloody-bearded Santa holds a knife in his left hand and the severed head of a doll — blood gushing from its eye sockets — in the other.

This ’tis-the-season-to be-creepy display — which has drawn no small amount of community ire — can be found in the front yard of Joel Krupnik, 58, and his wife, Mildred Castellanos, 43, who said they are protesting the commercialization of the Yule season.

But lest you assume Manhattanites are anti-Christmas bah humbugs, rest assured that the Post finds several who are outraged — shocked! — at the display:

Krupnik, who dabbles in real estate, said if anyone was offended, they could simply cross the street. Some children have done just that.

Other people have called the cops — only to be told there was nothing they could do. And one woman chased Castellanos down the block, screaming epithets at her.

Outside the home — also decorated with gargoyles, lizards and dragons — there were many who accused the couple of dreaming of a fright Christmas.

“This is like a nightmare before Christmas. These people are possessed,” fumed Laure Levinson, 50. “I thought it was very gory and bloody. Christmas is not supposed to be gory,” said Jimmy Crevier, 9, who was passing by. “It’s bad,” agreed Sean Conlon, 5. “Santa’s face and hair are red — Santa shouldn’t look like that.”

His brother, Ryan, 9, chimed in, “Santa makes toys and he lives in the North Pole. He doesn’t have a haunted house like that.”

“It’s weird,” said Javin Bose, 7, who lives next door.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us

Soon, all of your houses will become our summer homes:

A survey being released today found that a majority of Long Islanders — 56 percent — say that they may move away within five years. The study is part of the Long Island Index project commissioned by the Rauch Foundation in Garden City. Researchers at Stony Brook University polled 1,215 adults for the survey, which has a margin of sampling error of 2.8 percentage points.

The urge to leave has risen markedly in just the past year and is especially intense among two age groups, the survey found.

Sixty-four percent of those in the pre-retirement years of 50 to 64 are considering leaving, up from 47 percent last year, the survey found. For them, the inducements include capturing the huge run-up in the value of homes they bought years ago, enjoying the warmer climate in other regions and downsizing for retirement, especially if their children have grown up and no longer attend the island’s highly-rated public schools.

But even more of the 18-to-34 age group contemplate moving out — 70 percent, up from 62 percent last year. Their motivations include the high cost of rentals, stemming from the island’s scarcity of apartments. For many young adults, prohibitively expensive down payments have transformed the dream of a starter home into an elusive fantasy.

(Oh, and that’s so 1998.)

Tuna Family Mourns Fulton Fish Market’s Demise

After months of legal wrangling, the Fulton Fish Market finally closed:

The Fulton Fish Market, a cultural touchstone in lower Manhattan for nearly 184 years, packed up its last box of porgies early yesterday.
Its cobblestone-paved streets survived Tammany Hall, the Great Depression, two World Wars, the replacement of push carts with Nissan hi-low forklifts and alleged mob control.

. . .

Taking a coffee break at 5 a.m., a brawny vet nicknamed “Joey Tuna” struggled to hold back tears.

“Big guys ain’t supposed to cry, but a part of old New York is dying today,” Joey Centrone of Douglaston, Queens, said. “I recognize this place is antiquated, but it’s a part of us.”

Meanwhile, over in the Times, Joey’s brother Bobby also lets his emotions get the better of him:

“The city is throwing away its history,” said a fillet man named Bobby DiGregorio, better known as Bobby Tuna. “One day, there’s going to be a Banana Republic where I’m standing.” He finished slicing the belly of a fish the size of a Great Dane and slowly shook his head.

The new fish market at Hunts Point in the Bronx opened Sunday to lukewarm reviews:

The Fulton Fish Market opened for business at its new digs in The Bronx yesterday — with some of the 38 wholesalers already complaining that security there is too tight.

“It’s strange because it’s just a different environment. I was in that first market for 30 years — this is completely different,” said Mike Rizzuto, 53, of Montes Seafood.

He was annoyed that the enclosed compound, complete with chain-link fences and barbed wire, has three security checkpoints.

And some truck drivers griped about the increased travel time.

Buyer Michael Serra said, “I miss Chinatown, the Brooklyn Bridge, the scenery. There’s nothing here.

See also: New Fulton Fish Market (shouldn’t they get a more current name?).

Notices To Quit Thicker Than Blood

Nephew tries to make a quick million selling off Cobble Hill real estate, evicting his own elderly, infirm aunts in the process:

Two Brooklyn sisters in their 80s are about to be tossed out of the house where they grew up – by their own nephew, who is hoping to make a cool million bucks by selling the building.

He is in such a rush to unload the Cobble Hill townhouse in a hot real-estate market he knocked $400,000 off the price – hawking it to any buyer willing to meet bizarre conditions.

“House is being offered for $999,999, without seeing it, without inspecting it, must close in 30 days, must be all cash and must take tenants in place,” said the listing on Corcoran’s Web site.

After an inquiry from the Daily News, Corcoran removed the ad. Broker Patricia Neinast would not say if the house is still on the market, but the owner claimed to have found a buyer.

And that could be bad news for sisters Katherine Carmada, 88, and Angelina Visconti, 86, who say they have nowhere to go if they are evicted from the cozy brick home their father bought a century ago.

(There is some backstory, I suppose: the landlord’s deadbeat cousin — the son of one of the aunts — apparently lives in the attic with his wife, so . . . but, gee, who can resist a DAILY NEWS EXCLUSIVE?)

Where Brooklyn Ends . . . Er, Where “New” Brooklyn Ends

Charles Graeber writes in New York Magazine about the L-ification of Brooklyn and finds that it extends to . . . Jefferson Street:

I’ve been walking toward the gentrification line all day, and all day that line seems to have gotten no closer than the horizon.

Now, for instance, walking toward the Jefferson Street L station, I see on the horizon several more of those five-story factory buildings with Manhattan views — the sort of buildings that I watched go condo two years ago in Northside Williamsburg, the sort rented to youthful capacity today down the street at the Morgan L stop. I’m starting to hate these buildings. I’m starting to hate the people with their ironic bangs and ITHACA IS GORGE-OUS and VIRGINIA IS FOR LOVERS T-shirts, the shooter-producer husband and his video-artist wife and their baby, Fido. I’m not even halfway to Canarsie, but I’m done. I can no longer tell whether I’m in the middle of nowhere or on the edge of the next big somewhere. If there is a gentrification line, I’m giving up on finding it.

And then I run into Simon.

Simon is a big man, maybe six two, 250, dressed in thrift-shop clothes: blue jeans, a golf shirt nappy from overwashing, sneakers that are brand-new but not name-brand. His shaved head shows a star-shaped puncture wound; his arms are tweedy with scars. He stops just ahead to fish a hand-rolled smoke out of a box of Newports. When I stop next to him, he simply smiles and nods and exhales a thick cloud of blue smoke from a finger-size joint.

“You just checking out the neighborhood?” Simon says. He inhales, exhales, scratches.

“Yeah, that’s basically it,” I say.

“Checking it out,” Simon says.

“Just seeing what I see,” I say. I tell him about my walk, about following the L-train route away from Manhattan and looking for the line where things change.

. . .

Simon waves his joint toward Jefferson Street. “Look here,” he says. “You got them wide streets so the kids can play. And there’s no drugs—just a little weed, you know. And, I’m not paying rent right now so I don’t know, but most of the people around here, they Dominican, they work in the factories. Keep ’em close, the owners like to keep ’em close, word.” He laughs, getting excited. “And you know they ain’t getting paid much, so these places gotta be cheap!”

That’s when it hits me: I’m finally here. Simon’s gesture toward Jefferson takes in brownfields, industrial sprawl, derelict yards, and buildings that contain real working factories rather than raw loft space. There are no baby stores, soy products, or 24-hour delis. There is nothing to buy, no apartments not to afford. There are no Manhattan-bound commuters. There isn’t an ITHACA IS GORGE-OUS T-shirt in sight. Even Simon himself defines the line, which is exactly why the state has placed him right on top of it.

All day, I’ve been searching for the cliff edge of gentrification, and Simon has just casually pointed it out with a burning joint.

Bonus Points: Handy Craig’s List Shortcut.